Fireworks popping off underneath skin,
an explosions against the brickwork.
Blood so bright it burns my retinas
and when I dreamed I can see it,
the sizzle of colour.
My own fists tight as un-popped corks
deep in my dressing gown pockets,
buried under lint and hidden things,
like the sound of bone
this fuse pulled taught between my shoulders
and your face so dark with thunder
the crash of it in a plate on the kitchen floor,
slowly starts to clear.
I feel like I need to preface this poem with the fact that it is not a description of a real event, or specifically based on one real individual. We’ve had sporadic fireworks for the last couple of weeks, so if anything, those are the main source of inspiration. Right with that out of the way, here’s an audio recording of the poem, and a note to say go and check out the rest of the poems written for tonight’s DVersePoets sound prompt.
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